


The End of the World

by pipelliot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Slash, Angst, Blood, Death, Future Fic, Implied Reincarnation, M/M, Pre-Slash, War, canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipelliot/pseuds/pipelliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur supposes that dying must make a man say crazy things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite old. And quite possibly written when I was 14. That said, in that time I think this would have been considered a 'Future Fic', wherein Arthur being King and Merlin being Court Sorcerer was considered as kind of inevitable. ...Oops.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Just posted for the craic, really. Enjoy!

There’s lots of blood. It mixes with the mud and the rain all around them, below them, on them. For a second Arthur is very, very warm. Like burning. But then he’d tap the end of his nose and he wouldn’t even feel it. He decides to ignore such sensations while they’re so dishonest.

Arthur supposes it’s sunset. Arthur loves sunsets. It makes everything gold in a way that late mornings or spring afternoons can never manage. Maybe they’re more of an orangey type colour, now that Arthur thinks about it proper, but he’ll say it’s gold. Gold is much nicer. Gold like Merlin’s eyes when he conjures galloping horses from the flames in his palm for the children downtown. Gold like when he skewers knights with hardly pointed pillars so Arthur wouldn’t be harmed.

Harmed, and harmed only, of course. Of course Arthur would defeat everyone well enough by himself eventually.

Too bad Merlin doesn’t think so. Too bad Arthur isn’t too sure either, with the dagger sticking proudly out of his gut.

But that’s not what Arthur wants to think about.

Mordred is flung by invisible winds close enough to Arthur that he can probably stretch his fingers and touch him. His temporary flight looked like it might have snapped his neck. He doesn’t even twitch. Merlin walks up to him, the angriest Arthur has ever seen him, takes Mordred’s fallen sword and shoves it in Mordred’s gut once, like Arthur’s. Then twice. Three times. It makes a sickly sucking noise. Arthur doesn’t like it, he never has. He doesn’t like the look on Merlin’s face even more. He wants it to stop.

He thinks he asks Merlin to stop. He must’ve, because Merlin does.

The anger fades but there’s still dry blood mixed with fresh all over Merlin’s features. He looks at Arthur, lost. Anguished.

Arthur thinks he hates that the most.

Arthur notices soldiers with no limbs who are chewing their own mouths and trying not to scream.

He wonders why they aren’t screaming.

But only for the smallest moment, because he gets a picture of himself lying hopelessly in the filthy mud with blood pouring from an unseemly hole in his gut and suddenly he wants to sit up.  
He must’ve said so, because Merlin’s nodding frantically and hauling him up by his shoulders. He’s whispering things under his breath and Arthur’s vaguely aware of a glowing somewhere around the dagger, but he’s more focused on the lovely gold of Merlin’s eyes. He much prefers the deep blue, of course, but the gold is still lovely. Arthur likes gold.

He feels something solid slipping behind him and holding him upright, stopping him from flopping and dripping all over Merlin. That’s good.

Then Merlin’s slumping down beside him. His breathing is terrible, his stare is blank.  
Arthur doesn’t like it.

He lowers his head onto Merlin’s shoulder instead, and watches whatever he supposes Merlin is watching.

He sees lots of men unmoving. He sees some barely moving, with sharp things pointing out of odd places. He decides he’ll watch the sunset instead.

“Is it the end of the world?" He asks.

"No," says Merlin evenly. He sounds like he’s somewhere else. "You're just dying."

" _Just?_ " Arthur tries playfully. He wants Merlin to smile. Arthur really, really just wants Merlin to smile.

Merlin doesn’t though. A faraway “Hmm,” is all Arthur gets.

"Are you coming with me?" Arthur asks instead.

"No."

"Hmm."

Arthur focusses on Merlin’s breathing because it’s easier. He focusses on all the ways they’re touching, on the lovely solidarity and warmth of Merlin’s shoulder under him, how Merlin always did seem to thrum with life. Arthur focusses on the life that must swirl a brilliant gold in his veins and he loves it. He loves Merlin’s warmth. He loves the crusty mud on Merlin’s coat. He loves the stripe of cut flesh he sees across Merlin’s knuckles as he makes to link their equally trembling fingers together. He loves Merlin’s fingers. He loves the paleness of his neck in his blurry corner-vision. He loves the sparkle in his perfect blue eyes, even as he watched it grow less and less the longer Arthur has known him.

Arthur distantly remembers his father saying something about how sorcerers were the least human of all. Arthur thinks that untrue. He imagines the very earth itself is buried in Merlin’s bones. He thinks that Merlin’s is the truest thing he’s ever known. 

Arthur loves how Merlin is real.

He considers the amount of blood soaking through the layers of his chainmail and supposes that dying must make a man say crazy things.

"I love you, Merlin," he says, as plain as day, and it doesn’t feel crazy at all. 

Merlin’s exhale is very shuddery. He still doesn’t look at Arthur. He does, however, rest his head lightly on top of Arthur’s and starts sweeping back Arthur’s fringe. Smoothing it down, threading his fingers through it even though it’s probably disgusting. It feels nice. Arthur almost forgets he said anything, starts to wonder if he made a sound other than his rattling breathing at all.

“I'll wait for you." Merlin says suddenly, sounding a bit like he’s choking.

Arthur doesn’t know what that means. It’s possibly the most difficult thing he’s ever done, but he lifts his head and twists to try and look Merlin in the eye. Arthur would say he witnessed a kind of anguish he’d never seen before. But more importantly, he thinks he sees the sparkle fade. Like he’s the one being bled of life and not Arthur.

I’ll wait for you.

Arthur carefully doesn’t think about that.

He closes his eyes and loses his breath completely trying to squeeze Merlin’s fingers as hard as he can. He focuses on the rise and fall of Merlin’s shoulder under his cheek and for only a second pretends it’s the result of his own functioning chest, because that’s easier. That’s less terrifying.  
Arthur carefully focuses on Merlin’s touch gliding over his filthy scalp, the equally filthy skin of his forehead and carefully decides he doesn’t wonder all the things that waiting for a dead man could mean.

+++


End file.
